It is the same now as it was then — the old Biblical legend can be fitted to ourselves every day and every hour of the day. God’s laws exist, — and chiefest of them all is the Law of Love. Twist that great mandate into a decree of Mammon, and you have blotched with crime the bright face of the universe. The artist of Capri is happier than many a millionaire, and a hundred times better-looking than most. Nature has done her best for him in all respects, — has given him a fine face and figure, a fearless look, superb health, and complete enjoyment of life, — what more does any one want out of the vast storehouse of creation?
It is what we are all fighting and struggling for — life and the enjoyment of life: this man has it on a simple hundred pounds a year. And if another man as good, as handsome, as simple- hearted, and as worthy of respect, were to ask one of our modern young Englishwomen to-day to try and love him on that income, she would find her heart singularly impervious to his wooing, depend upon it! If he suggested living in some lovely nook of the world, where life is cheaply and easily maintained, such as Capri, she would begin to mope at the mere idea of the “dulness” involved — and why? Because Love is not sufficient for her. Because in the rush of our time we are trampling sweet emotions and true passions under foot, and marriages are seldom the result of affection nowadays, — they are merely the carrying out of a settled scheme of business. Mothers teach their daughters to marry for a “suitable establishment”: fathers, rendered desperate as to what they are to do with their sons in the increasing struggle for life and the incessant demand for luxuries which are not by any means actually necessary to that life, say, “Look out for a woman with money.” Heirs to a great name and title sell their birthrights for a mess of American dollar-pottage, — and it is a very common every-day sight to see some Christian virgin sacrificed on the altar of matrimony to a money-lending, money-grubbing son of Israel.
Bargain and sale, — sale and bargain, — it is the whole raison d’être of the “season,” — the balls, the dinners, the suppers, the parties to Hurlingham and Ascot. Even on the dear old Thames with its delicious nooks, fitted for pure romance and heart betrothal, the clatter of Gunter’s luncheon-dishes and the popping of Benoist’s champagne-corks remind the hungry gypsies who linger near such scenes of river revelry that there is not much sentiment about — only plenty of money being wasted. Here, for instance, is a little river-study taken from life: —
Time: late evening. Scene: Cookham. Sky-effect: moonrise. Dramatis personæ: He and She, lolling each in a deck-chair on a luxuriously fitted house-boat.
HE:
I heard a lot this season about the way you were going on with that poor devil of a So-and-So, — people said you were fond of him, dontcherknow.
SHE
(casually):
Did they? So I was. Awfully fond. But he hadn’t got any oof-bird.
HE:
Oh! Then I suppose he’s “off”?
SHE:
Off? I should think so! Why — (this with deep contempt) he’s become a digger.
HE
(laughing):
Costume will suit him down to the ground. Rather good-looking fellow — fine figure and all that — jolly sort of chap. I say, then, if he’s “off” I’m on — eh?
SHE:
If you like. I told you it would be all right when your governor died. Couldn’t settle up till then. He might have lived ever so long.
HE:
So he might. But he hasn’t. He’s gone, sure enough. Then it’s a tie?
SHE:
It’s a tie. No — don’t kiss me — I don’t feel like it.
HE
(chuckling):
Don’t you? Well, I suppose you have got to be taken in the humour. I don’t feel like it either, now I come to think of it.
SHE:
I am quite sure you don’t. It’s so idiotic, you know,
HE:
I bet you kissed the digger fellow. Come, didn’t you?
SHE:
I may have done. I don’t remember. Anyhow, it isn’t your business. I want some ices.
HE:
Waiter! Ices! And a brandy-and-soda!
(Slow music. Song by nigger-minstrels— “Won’t yer ketch ’im when yer sees ’im.”)
[CURTAIN.
This kind of wooing is the way Mammon teaches his sons and daughters to jest with the most divine emotions of life, — and the spirit of fin de siècle cynicism and mockery pervades all the preliminaries of marriage and marriage itself, to work dire results of discontent and wretchedness hereafter. For Nature will not be baulked of her rights. She gave us brains wherewith to think — hearts wherewith to feel — emotions to respond to every touch of human tenderness and sympathy — minds to educate in such wise that they should be able to grasp and realise all the dear and holy responsibilities of life; and when we will neither think nor feel, nor respond, nor be educated, nor realise what we were made for, she takes her vengeance upon us — and an appalling one it sometimes is. There can be nothing more hideous, more like a foretaste of hell itself, than the life-to-life position of a man and woman who have been hustled into matrimony, or rather, as I prefer to put it, sold to each other for so many thousands per annum, and who, when the wedding-fuss is over, and the feminine “pictorials” have done gushing about the millinery of the occasion, find themselves alone together, without a single sympathy in common, — with nothing but the chink of gold and the rustle of bank-notes for their heart-music, — and with a barrier of steadily-increasing repulsion and disgust rising between them every day.
And this is what happens in nine cases out of ten in fashionable modern matrimony. “A marriage has been arranged” is a common phrase of newspaper parlance, — and it has one advantage over most newspaper forms of speech — namely, that of being strictly and literally true. A marriage is “arranged” as a matter of convenience or social interest; lawyers draft settlements and conclude the sale, — and a priest of the Most High God is called in to bless the bargain. But it is nevertheless a bargain, — a trafficking in human bodies and souls, as open and as shameless as any similar scene in Stamboul.
And yet there is liberty in our land if we will only avail ourselves of the glorious privilege. Women are free to assert their modesty, their sense of right, their desire for truth and purity, if they only will. Is it too much to ask of them that they should refuse to be stripped to the bosom and exposed for sale in the modern drawing-rooms of the “season”? Is it too much to ask that, in their natural and fitting desire to be suitably wedded, they should look for men rather than money, — love rather than an “establishment,” — mutual sympathy and understanding rather than so much heritable property in houses and lands? And may not it even be suggested that men should be manly enough to refuse to set themselves forth in the market as “Heir to the estate of So-and-So, worth so much in hard cash” or “Only lineal descendant of the Earl of So-and-So, — anxious to sell title, with body and soul attached to it, to any woman who can give the adequate millions necessary for immediate purchase”? A man who marries a woman for her money only is really one of the most despicable objects in existence. He who by natural law was intended to be the supporter, becomes the supported, — he who by every proud prerogative of manhood is formed to be the conqueror and pro- protector tector, is tamed and tied like a feeble nursling to a woman’s apron-string, he loses the right to exert his independence, and must submit to be henpecked, “nagged at,” or else treated with a callous indifference, and sometimes an infinite contempt.
The woman who marries for money is quite as blameworthy, and is likely to find her position equally as aggravating, only in another way. The man who has the “chinks” will never throw her poverty at her as a fault in the blunt and coarse terms which many a wealthy woman uses to a dependent husband, — but he will involuntarily show her, by a thousand little unmistakable signs, that he knows he has bought her, — and even in the very lavishness of his gifts to her she will gradually come to re
alise the “position” she holds with regard to him — namely, one of social dummy, household figure-ornament, — while he, free as air, amuses himself with other women, and soothes any pricking of his conscience by the reflection that after all, as his wife, she has everything she wants in the way of dress and jewels, food and firing, and that, in all the necessary items of sustenance and comfort, he has done his duty by her.
The real fact of the matter is that marriage is nothing more nor less than a crime if it is entered upon without that mutual supreme attraction and deep love which makes the union sacred. It is a selling of body into slavery, — it is a dragging down of souls into impurity. The passion of love is a natural law, — a necessity of being, — and if a woman gives herself to a man in marriage without that love truly and vitally inspiring her, she will in time find that the “natural law” will have its way, and attract her to some other than her lawful husband, and drag her steadily down through the ways of sin to perdition.
I am addressing myself especially to women. In a woman’s life one love should suffice. She cannot, constituted as she is, honestly give herself to more than one man. And she should be certain — absolutely, sacredly, solemnly certain — that out of all the world that one man is indeed her pre-elected lover, her chosen mate, — that never could she care for any other hand than his to caress her beauty, — never for any other kiss than his to rest upon her lips, — and that without him life is but a half-circle, waiting completion.
How much of this kind of “certainty” enters into the “arrangements” of a fashionable marriage? How many women, as they pass up to the altar in all the glory of their bridal finery, are actually proud and happy to take the vows of love and fidelity? Very few. Yet it should be a proud moment for any woman; it should be the height of her life’s triumph to submit to the mastery of love. Only, unfortunately, it is seldom this divine mastery of love which dominates her; it is a weak compound of toleration and resignation, mixed up with pounds, shillings, and pence, — a farce of society fuss and feigning, in which poor Love gets crowded out altogether, and hastily spreads his wings for flight. He is the last of all the mythical gods to be tempted or cajoled by lawyers and settlements, wedding-cake and perishable millinery. His domain is Nature, and the heart of humanity, — and the gifts he can bestow on those who meet him in the true spirit are marvellous and priceless indeed. The exquisite joys he can teach, — the fine sympathies, — the delicate emotions, — the singular method in which he will play upon two lives like separate harps, and bring them into resounding tune and harmony, so that all the world shall seem full of luscious song, — this is one way of love’s system of education. But this is not all: he can so mould the character, temper the will, and strengthen the heart, as to make his elected disciples endure the bitterest sorrows bravely, — perform acts of heroic self-sacrifice, and attain the most glorious heights of ambition; for, as the venerable Thomas à Kempis tells us, “Love is a great thing, yea, a great and thorough good; by itself it makes everything that is heavy light, and it bears evenly all that is uneven. For it carries a burden which is no burden, and makes everything that is bitter sweet and tasteful. Though weary it is not tired, though pressed it is not straitened, though alarmed it is not confounded, but as a lively flame and burning torch it forces its way upward and securely passes through all.”
Is not such divine happiness well worth attaining? Is the cash-box better? And will the possession of jewels, gold, and estates, be of any avail as consolation in the hours of pain and loss? Think well about it, fair women, before deciding your destinies; and if you are inclined to shudder at the way in which your human sisters are sold in Stamboul, put a stop to the preparations you are making for selling yourselves. The London market will be open to you in May, and the bidders will assemble as usual. They will consider your value in face, figure, skin, eyes, hair, and general complexion. They will note in slang parlance as to whether you are “well-groomed” ( i.e. id est , well-dressed), just as they note the condition of their thoroughbred mares. They will look at you with the egotistical tolerance of men who have money and know that they are worth marrying. Your pretty ways, your little smiles, your blushes, your graceful attitudes, will be discussed at the clubs and restaurants in various forms, as, “She knows how to do it,” or, “She is laying a neat trap for me,” or, “I expect I shall have to give in to her in the long run,” and certain other chuckling assertions of a like kind; and if you come up to the expectations of the Jews or the Gentiles, who are thus estimating your qualities, you will be sold.
That is, if you choose to be marketable commodities. It rests with you. You are not bound to listen to one of your own sex who asks you, as I do, in plain words not to sell yourselves. But if you do listen, albeit only for a moment, I shall not have written quite in vain. I want you to refuse to make your bodies and souls the traffickable material of vulgar huckstering. I want you to give yourselves ungrudgingly, fearlessly, without a price or any condition whatsoever, to the men you truly love, and abide by the results. If love is love indeed, no regret can be possible. But be sure it is love, — the real passion, that elevates you above all sordid and mean considerations of self — that exalts you to noble thoughts and nobler deeds, — that keeps you faithful to the one vow, and moves you to take a glorious pride in preserving that vow’s immaculate purity; — be sure it is all this, for if it is not all this, you are making a mistake, and you are ignorant of the very beginnings of love. Try to fathom your own hearts on this vital question; try to feel, to comprehend, to learn the responsibilities invested in womanhood, — and never stand before God’s altar to accept a blessing on your marriage if you know in your own inmost soul that it is no marriage at all in the true sense of the word, but merely a question of convenience and sale. To do such a deed is the vilest blasphemy — a blasphemy in which you involve the very priest who pronounces the futile benediction. The saying “God will not be mocked” is a true one; and least of all will He consent to listen to, or ratify such a mockery as a marriage-vow sworn before Him in utter falsification and misprisal of His chiefest commandment — Love. It is a wicked and wilful breaking of the law and is never by any chance allowed to remain unpunished.
The Passing of the Great Queen
A TRIBUTE TO THE NOBLE LIFE OF VICTORIA REGINA
WAR and rumours of war, — nation rising against nation, — these fulfilled and yet threatening disasters have culminated in the worst disaster of all, the “passing” of the greatest, purest, best and most blameless Monarch in our history. England’s Queen is dead! The words sound as heavily as though one should say, “The sun is no longer in the sky!” Strange indeed it is to think of England without the Mother-Queen of the great British people; — to realize that she, the gentle and beneficent Lady of the Land, has left us for ever! We had grown to think of her as almost immortal. Her goodness, her sympathy, were so much part of ourselves, and were so deeply entwined in the very heart and life and soul of the nation, that we have seldom allowed ourselves to think of the possibility of her being taken from us. Always apparently “well,” — never permitting her subjects to think there was anything the matter with her, — bearing bravely such trials and bereavements as would have broken down the health and nerve of many a stronger and younger woman, she was always, as it seemed, ready to our call. We — spoilt children of long-favouring fortune — had grown accustomed to believe she would always be thus “ready,” — that our constant prayer and chant which all we in our generation have sung since we were children, “God Save the Queen!” would be so potent and persuasive as to altogether disarm the one invincible Angel who, when the hour of his solemn visitation comes, will take no denial, but
“Beckons, and with inverted torch doth stand
To lead us with a gentle hand
Into the Land of the Great Departed,
Into the Silent Land.”
Thither she has gone, the great Mother of a great people; a people growing out like their own English oaks, far
and wide, taking broad root and spreading mighty branches in all lands — just as her new Empire of the South has been affixed like another jewel to her crown, she has put off the earthly diadem and robes of earthly state and has “passed” into that higher condition of being, wherein all things that seemed sorrows become joys, and where eyes grown blind, perchance with tears for lost and loved ones, suddenly see “not as in a glass darkly, but face to face.”
We grieve for the loss of our beloved Monarch because it is a most personal loss, — one which is irreparable, and which will tell on the English Empire for many years to come. But we do not grieve for her death, because we know, not only through the Christian faith, but also through the wondrous workings of Science and its recent heaven-sent discoveries, that there is no such thing as Death. We know that when the soul is ready for Heaven, the body drops from that radiant Essence like the husk from ripe corn, and sets it free to an eternity of endless joy, work and wisdom; and we are beginning to learn that all our trials and difficulties in this world, be they the trials and difficulties of an exalted position or an humble one, are but the necessary preparation for this divinely-ordained consummation.
The Queen, our Mother and our Friend, lived her life with a noble simplicity commanding the admiration of the world. She accepted her many bereavements with a patience and dignity which silently expressed to all who cared to note it, the purity of her faith in God. Occupying the proudest position on earth, her days were passed in the quietest pleasures, — and she stood before us, a daily unmatched example of the inestimable value of Home and home-life, with all its peaceful surroundings and sacred influences. There was nothing her Majesty so greatly disliked as vulgar show and ostentation — nothing she appreciated so thoroughly as quiet and decorous conduct, simplicity in dress, gentleness of manner. The extravagance, loose morals, and offensive assertion of flaunting wealth, so common to London society nowadays, met with her extreme disapproval; and such faults of modern taste have often been set forth as the reasons why she so seldom visited the Metropolis. She was an incarnation of womanhood at its best; as a girl she is described by the chroniclers of the time as being simple and modest, unaffected and graceful; as a wife and mother she was devoted to her duties, and adored her husband and children; as a widow, no more faithful worshipper of a beloved memory has ever been writ down in our annals. As in our old legends the mythical King Arthur was called “the blameless King,” so, perchance, in the far ages to come, when we, and all our progress, advancement, Imperialism and power shall have disappeared into the infinite, leaving only a faint echo, like the sound of a breaking wave upon the shore, future generations may know Victoria as “the blameless Queen,” in whose long reign England’s glory rose upward to an almost falling height!
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22) Page 966
